No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face. 
—John Donne

Watching half-light creep in,
I see a faint silhouette,
and up out of darkness
your sleeping face rises to light.
At last I see them:
those lines so carefully etched
it took thirty-three years.

And still I recall that girl,
those deathless days of summer.
All that remains of her now
is what we half remember—
that and a fading trace
dancing across your face
as daylight claims the window.

It has taken this to teach me
why I hold you as close as I do.
By sunlight I see your face—
its pale autumnal grace,
its burden of thirty-three years.
So many, so deep—the stories
of love those lines tell.